I Played the Game
by Carolyn984
Summary: We made an agreement, but why did I think that would stop him from doing what he wanted most? (Edited) Inspired by the Mediator 6 sneak peek!


I Played the Game, by Carolyn  
  
A/N: This was inspired partially by the sneak peek of Mediator 6 (titled Twilight, for those of you who don't know) that Meg Cabot released. If you haven't read it yet, it's at Meg's website, under "About Meg" in her Diary section. Obviously, the characters aren't mine, just this story, minus the oh, say, three lines I borrowed from the sneak peek. Enjoy my latest twenty-minute burst of imagination. =)  
  
Additional note: I removed the "©" at the end of my story due to a few complaints that I was claiming what wasn't mine. I just want you all to know that wasn't my intention, and I apologize to those who assumed it was. I only use © as a symbol to date my stories. Thanks for reading!  
  
For Coach Bennie, 8/12/67-2/20/04. Always in our Hearts. "Only the good die young. . ."  
  
"I would've given you all of my heart  
  
But there's someone who's torn it apart  
  
And he's taken just all that I have  
  
But if you want, I'll try to love again. . ." Sheryl Crow, 'The First Cut is the Deepest'  
  
--------------------------------------------  
  
I can't believe I let it happen. It was all my fault.  
  
I was too over-confident. Too sure. Too smug in my own abilities. I was positive, *positive* that I would be able to handle anything that he threw at me.  
  
But I was wrong. God, was I ever wrong. . .  
  
And now there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing.  
  
I never trusted him, and for good reason. But I was beginning to think, after all this time, that I didn't have to worry about him trying to take you away from me. I mean, we had an agreement, right? It was settled that you were off-limits to him. He *agreed.*  
  
But why did I think that mattered? What on God's green earth made me think that he would actually keep his promise? Why was I so naive? So, so stupid?  
  
"You want me to make your boyfriend disappear?"  
  
Those words, coming from him, were the most frightening, terrifying words I have ever heard. I was paralyzed with fear upon their utterance. I knew he could. Make you disappear, I mean. He knew way more about his abilities than I did, and I didn't doubt for one second that he was capable of doing just that.  
  
Why? Why was he doing this to me? I was playing his game, playing according to his own rules. . .  
  
What did I do wrong?  
  
I never should have thought I could handle this myself. I should have gone to Father Dominic. . .  
  
No, I should have gone to *you.* You, of all people, had a right to know. But I never tell you. I always lie, always think of some way to deceive you. Before all of this, I actually thought I was a somewhat decent, passable excuse for a human being. Now, however, I know that I was wrong. I kept things from you. Too many things. I rationalized that it was for your own good, but really, it was because I was too afraid. I never admitted it before, but now I will. I was afraid. A total chicken.  
  
And look where it got me. More importantly, look where it got you.  
  
It's all my fault. And I will never, ever forgive myself for what I've done.  
  
I am a horrible person. Only I never realized it before. How did you put up with me all this time? Why did you?  
  
He laughed. When I asked him, demanded from him, what he did, he laughed. At me, or at the situation, I don't know, but he found the whole thing sickeningly amusing. My eyes were filled with tears, tears of rage and unthinkable sadness and guilt, and he had the nerve to laugh.  
  
So I punched him, right square in the face.  
  
Not, I realized, unlike what you had done to him. Twice.  
  
With this epiphany, I tore away from him, unable to look at his deceitful face any more, but more importantly, unable to stand in the presence of anyone else. I wasn't worthy of it. Not after what I had done. After all you had done for me, I couldn't even tell you the truth. I didn't deserve you, your friendship, your love. And now, because I was such a fool, I didn't have it anymore.  
  
More of the conversation that he and I had a few days earlier raced through my head as I peeled down the lonely streets of Carmel, running faster and with the most recklessness I ever had in my life. I didn't even avoid the patches of weeds along the side of the road. I didn't even care if I was stricken with poison oak for the rest of my pitiful existence. That, at least, I would have deserved.  
  
"We had an agreement," I had said, my throat dry and parched with fear.  
  
"I promised I wouldn't kill him," he said that day, with a knowing smirk on his face. One that made my entire body freeze with terror. "I never said anything about keeping him from dying in the first place."  
  
I should've told you then. I should've warned you, told you he was up to something. He wasn't going to play fair.  
  
But then again, did he ever?  
  
He was going to destroy you, destroy *us*, and chalk it up to poor sportsmanship, just like he had done last summer. This was his plan that whole time, and I never saw it. I was a moron for making that agreement with him, and my idiocy ruined you. Somehow, he managed to prevent your murder from ever having taken place, and therefore letting you lead a full life, back in the nineteenth century, and dying in your own time. No unfinished business. No need to hang around on this side.  
  
No need to ever have known me.  
  
I collapsed onto the ground. That's the only way I can describe it. One moment, I was racing down the road with the force of a train, and the next, I was crumpled into a heap in the sand. I knew something was wrong that morning, when I woke. I couldn't describe it, but my suspicions were confirmed when I went to the cemetery during a lavatory break during history class, and your headstone was not at the end of the path. In a passionate, apprehensive haste, I burst into Father Dominic's office, and finally told him. Everything.  
  
But I was too late. I even tried shifting into the shadowland, and spoke with the Gatekeeper, but there was nothing he could do. As far as he was concerned, Jesse de Silva died a man of seventy-eight, and had long since passed on.  
  
I try to tell myself that this isn't happening. I let the warm Pacific breezes caress my long hair, sticking it to the rivulets streaming down my face like liquid guilt, and rack my brain for any way, *any* way that I can make this better. I try to summon you.  
  
It doesn't work. And even if it did, I don't even know if you would know who I was.  
  
I had played the game. His game. And I lost.  
  
I lost everything.  
  
Please, oh God, Jesse, please forgive me.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------  
  
2004 by Carolyn, Carolyn984@aol.com 


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